


Different People

by Camfield



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mc76 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camfield/pseuds/Camfield
Summary: Morrison.That’s the name that kept coming up, over and over. Soldier 76, renegade and vigilante. A man who played his role so well that no one could figure out who he was. Not the media, not the gangs he fought against.But then there was the man behind the mask. The face from the past that had looked into McCree’s eyes and offered him a sincere apology. Had looked haggard and gritted enough that it’d seemed wrong to deny him the acceptance that came from taking it.





	Different People

Morrison.

That’s the name that kept coming up, over and over. Soldier 76, renegade and vigilante. A man who played his role so well that no one could figure out who he was. Not the media, not the gangs he fought against.

But then there was the man behind the mask. The face from the past that had looked into McCree’s eyes and offered him a sincere apology. Had looked haggard and gritted enough that it’d seemed wrong to deny him the acceptance that came from taking it.

None of that had prepared him for just how different and yet the same Jack Morrison was.

None of that had prepared him for the genuine compassion he’d seen, the gruff care he showed the new members of Overwatch. How he spoke quietly with Hana when she was having a rough day, or how he deferred to Winston as Strike Commander and only offered tactical insights, not disparaged his ideas or belittled them.

None of that was what McCree remembered, and as the months roll on he isn’t sure if it’s because he didn’t look for it, or if it’s because Jack changed so much.

It was funny how it took so much trauma to change perspectives, how little time it takes to reevaluate once a man has new information.

It’s funnier to him still that once he saw Morrison as a man, not a monster, the attraction wins out. Guy’s always been his type, broad shoulders, muscled to hell and dangerous. Was back then, certainly is now. The receding hairline, nor the color of the hair, bothers him. Only adds to the image of a mature man in exquisite shape, though he admits that whatever he and Reyes had gone through that they didn’t talk much about helped with all that. Given what had gone down in Blackwatch, he’s mostly sure it isn’t natural, but honestly, he doesn’t care much about that anyway.

What he does care about is how the soldier walks when he thinks no one is looking. That slump of shoulders, strong lines dipping into a defeated curve. The crease of his brow as he pokes at something on his tablet that McCree can’t see. It rubs him like sandpaper, because he knows guilt, knows remorse, and can see pain in how the soldier moves, acts… lives.

He’d call himself crazy for sitting down next to him, but they’re both older and the pain of the past isn’t so personal that he can blame a man who has lost just as much if not more from his mistakes. Doesn’t flinch when he’s barked at, when the ground out words accuse him of making fun, bullying and smug at his downfall.

McCree just sits there and takes it, he deserves part of it anyway, and at the end only pats Jack’s hand. Looks up and murmurs that he doesn’t have to be alone, and that maybe, it’s alright if they both apologize for things that they shouldn’t have done.

He cracks a smile, and mentions a flag made out of underpants as a hypothetical, and with a snort the ice is broken, a sort of uneasy friendship borne. Jack doesn’t trust easily anymore and McCree never has, but they have common ground enough to start again. Start over.

So they do.

Little quips at mealtimes, snarky comments in the hallways. McCree sneaking Jack stupid American snack foods like twinkies and moon pies like they’re some kind of contraband just to see him chuckle as he pulls them out of places they shouldn’t be. The bread box, his tactical pack, until he finally chucks one at the cowboy in mock outrage and eats another without missing a step.

For Jesse, it’s a revelation.

How the former strike commander isn’t just Morrison. He’s Jack.

He’s human.

Funny how he didn’t see it before, or was too high on his horse to see it. Blindfolded by anger and misplaced blame, unwilling to see the nuances or perhaps simply ignoring them. He doesn’t care to look in to the reasons anymore.

What he cares about now is how the large hand feels on his skin when he’s given that one off clap of amusement. How the chuckle has become warm when they’re alone and McCree says something that tickles him the right way. Weeks of cautiousness that turn into casual interactions, and then into the frozen moment when he makes a move, palm heavy along the bare bicep still damp from a shower. Quiet words in the steam of the locker room that lead them to Jesse’s room, clothes falling like raindrops to pool on the floor. Hands that are hesitant, unsure. Neither has spent much time pursuing anything outside of the occasional fuck, too preoccupied with their own personal agendas or hiding from everyone.

So it’s hesitant…

Until it isn’t, and Jesse has Jack flat on his back with the soldier’s cock in his mouth and hands fisted into his hair. Bobbing shallowly, he’s too out of practice to swallow him down straight off, and stroking the handful he can’t fit with an almost trembling eagerness. Listening to the guttural sounds Jack makes, how he groans and shifts like it’s almost too much. Erection flushed a rosy red that the gunslinger admires whenever it isn’t in his mouth. Suckling on the soft skin, tongue playing under foreskin and around the thick of the glans to juttering hips and bitten off curses, nose pressing along the base as he mouths testes and feels fingernails bite into his scalp for his teasing. Spurring him onward, to nip along inner thigh and scrape his teeth just barely along the tip, letting the sticky spunk rope across his cheeks when it comes and rumbling when he feels the hands loosen from deathgrip to affectionate. Petting him instead of holding him close.

He thinks it might be a catharsis… or it might just be finding comfort where they can. A flash of thought between him wiping himself off and being pushed down onto his own back, a questioning voice bringing him back to the present.

Jesse just hikes his legs up and tosses Jack a tube of lubricant, flashing him a cocky grin that makes the older man snort. Coating fingers that tease first, mindful and gentle, then clumsily find his prostate to stroke and strike as the fingers give way to a once again filled out cock. Shifting, testing, until Jesse arches up and grips shoulders tight and then it’s a heavy, pounding rhythm that he swears strikes at his very core. Leaving scratch marks on the paler skin, red and angry and indicative of just how good it is. Moaning as his own cock is bobbing, smacking against bellies and leaking more and more the longer he’s fucked into his mattress. Until his fingers grasp the soldier’s ass and push him in, holding him as Jesse’s toes curl and his head is thrown back. Coming hard, so much that it almost hurts, with his own spend coating abs and dripping through hair as he drops back. Urging Jack on again as he hisses and gasps from the overstimulation. So good. How it tingles his nerve endings from top to toe and when the bloom of warmth explodes inside him he sags down and pulls the vigilante with him.

Clean up is lazy, with a pillowcase sacrificed so they don’t have to get out of bed, and Jesse insists on a kiss, laughing softly at the thought that their first one was after they’d bedded.

But as he tucked Jack up against his front, he supposed that there would be time for more. Stroked along his hip, his thigh, and let the wash of pillow talk wisk him away into dozing.

There’d be more time for kisses, he supposed.

Jack wasn’t leaving, after all.


End file.
